Now, Discover
by moonlighten
Summary: <html><head></head>August, 2007 to October, 2008: Wales isn't human, so there are some things that he just doesn't get to have, no matter how much he might want them. (Wales/OFC; mentions of Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 30 of the Feel the Fear series.</html>


**14th August, 2007; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
>Wales shakes the duvet cover out at Cerys' urging, and stares down at it.<p>

Sadly, it looks no better unfurled; perhaps even worse, because the frills hadn't been noticeable whilst it was neatly tucked away inside its packaging and the more idiosyncratically coloured flowers were hidden by its folds.

"Thank you, Mrs Powell," Wales manages when Cerys' mother looks at him expectantly. "It's lovely."

He hopes he sounds convincing. He's certainly had enough practice over his many, many years of feigning appreciation for yet another handkerchief or tablecloth embroidered with leeks come Christmastime.

Cerys starts shaking slightly, most noticeable where one of her hips is pressed against Wales', clearly holding in laughter. Wales daren't even look at her, because he knows that if he does, the tenuous grip he's keeping on his own laughter will slip immediately.

"Cerys mentioned that you could do with adding a bit of colour around the place," Mrs Powell says, politely restrained compared to Cerys herself, whose exact opinion of Wales' particular aesthetic, both in clothing and decoration, had been that he utilises 'a palette of dull with accents of drab'. "And, please, call me Mary."

Wales nods despite knowing he likely never will, even if he has to perform complicated verbal gymnastics in the future to avoid using her name. It seems disrespectful, somehow, even though he's likely more than forty times her age, and Cerys will no doubt tease him for being old-fashioned yet again if she ever realises what he's doing.

Mr Powell, who's been hovering by the front door for at least the last ten minutes looking restless and more than ready to leave, clears his throat and says, "We'd better get going, if we want to beat the traffic."

It's the most Wales has heard him say all day. His only other words being a gruff 'thank you' when Wales handed him a cup of tea. Wales has the distinct impression that either he doesn't particularly like him, or perhaps is just feeling a little put out by the fact that the first time he's met the man whom his daughter's been seeing for almost a year is the day he's moving boxes of her belongings into his home.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>16th August, 2007; Cardiff, Wales**

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>There are seven messages on Wales' answer phone when he arrives home.<p>

The first is from England:

_What the fuck was that? What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't –_

Wales deletes the message just as England's voice ratchets up to a pitch that suggests he's settling in for a lengthy and vituperative rant.

The second is from Scotland:

_Wales, it's Scotland. England just told me what's going on, and…_

Scotland's voice fades out with a soft curse and the message ends. The third is also from him:

_Shit, if you heard that, Cerys, I was just pissing about. What I meant to say was: Dylan, Arthur just rang me and –_

Wales deletes that message, too, along with the ones from Ireland, Guernsey, Jersey and New Zealand.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best idea to change his answer phone message before he let his family about the corresponding change in his living arrangements.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>18th August, 2007; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
>England arrives first thing Saturday morning on the pretext of urgently needing Wales' opinion on some governmental papers. Flicking through them, Wales gets the impression that England just grabbed a random selection of whatever was sitting closest to hand on his desk.<p>

"And this was important enough that I had to see it right away?" Wales asks, looking up from a document detailing the correct procedure for disposing of electrical equipment.

"I imagine it's vital for…" England cranes his neck to peer over Wales' shoulder. "People who might want to throw away their telly," he says, voice lifting to a hopeful note at the end.

"Parliament's not even in session at the moment. I think it could have waited until Monday, even if it is as vital as you say." Wales throws the paper down on the sofa beside him. "Look, we both know why you're really here, so why don't you get it over and done with."

England hems and haws for a moment, insisting that he doesn't know what Wales is talking about, but eventually seems to tire of his transparent attempt at subterfuge when Wales stays silent and refuses to continue indulging him.

"This is probably the most ridiculous idea you've ever had," he says, folding his hands together on his lap and staring down at them. "You do realise that, don't you?"

Even though he'd known exactly what England was thinking, Wales' irritation still rises upon actually hearing the words. "No, I don't realise that. You know, people move in together all the time, and –"

"But you're not 'people', Wales," England cuts in, voice a low growl, "and there are some things you just don't get to have, no matter how much you might want them."

By and large, Wales has learnt to let what England says wash over him, never mind how personally objectionable he might find it, but occasionally he pushes hard enough in just the right way, unerringly finding the places where Wales defences are weakest. It's a talent of his, though hardly an enviable one. "Do you honestly think I don't know that? And forgive me if I don't rush to take your advice, Lloegr, but you're not exactly overflowing in experience with this sort of situation, are you? I mean, you've never even –"

The skin around England's eyes tightens, his knuckles blanch, and Wales guiltily chokes down the rest of his sentence, because it's not something he can throw in England's face even to win an argument. Seven years since they found out, and it's still the elephant in the room, untouchable even to Scotland, whom Wales had always thought had no limits when it came to attempting to gain the upper hand with their brother.

"I might not have the _experience_, but I am fully capable of _imagining_ the difficulties you might face." England's voice is strained, a little too high and a little too sharp, and Wales wants to apologise even though he knows he can't. It's easier simply to pretend, pretend England never told and he and Scotland never heard, and leave these little slips of the tongue unacknowledged. "How do you expect to conceal what you are from her now? Or have you already told her?"

Wales shakes his head. His relationship with Aly has been the only one to date which hadn't been destroyed by that particular revelation, but, then again, he'd also been the only one who'd known before they'd embarked upon it. It's not something Wales feels he can drop into a casual conversation with a human, and by the time he's moved beyond casual, it feels like it's already too late. Like it would be too much of a betrayal, and experience has taught him that it usually is.

"I will, though," he says, repeating himself more firmly when England raises a sceptical eyebrow. "I will, when I find the right moment."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>25th August, 2007; Cardiff, Wales**

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>Cerys' enthusiasm had been one of the first things that had attracted Wales to her. Maths was her first love – and she had the PhD and now the teaching position to prove it – but her interests beyond that seemed boundless. She filled up most of what little free time she had with evening classes and online courses on subjects as diverse as criminal psychology and cake decoration, devouring every scrap of knowledge with a rapacious appetite.<p>

Wales' already groaning bookshelves had to be double-stacked to accommodate her extensive library; dusty tomes on archaeology and esoteric snippets of Welsh history she'd rescued from library sales rubbing shoulders with glossy paperbacks of popular science and stained and dog-eared cookbooks. The rather insipid watercolours that had decorated his walls were replaced here and there with silkscreen prints and colourful collages that Cerys had made and framed herself, catching Wales' eye unexpectedly at times when what had hung there before had blended inconspicuously into the wallpaper. It is, Wales has to admit, an improvement over the previous décor.

"You should come to a class with me," Cerys suggests as she flips through a booklet detailing the next academic year's adult education courses. "It'll be fun; I promise."

Wales' own interests have remained unchanged for many years: reading, writing and walking – though not with the same intense dedication as Scotland – and, practically new-minted in comparison, rugby. Their kind's longevity should, he thinks, make them more open to new experiences, if only to stave off some of the inevitable boredom that comes from living for so long tied, by and large, to a single location, but instead he's found that it tends to confine them. They lack the bright urgency of most humans, desperate to cram as much as they can of what the world has to offer into what they already know is limited timespan, and seem to settle into comfortable complacency whenever world events conspire to leave them relatively free to choose their own pursuits.

That human sense of urgency has always fascinated Wales, and this seems like the perfect opportunity to sample at least a tiny part of that. "All right," he says. "Sign me up, then."

(Cerys eventually chooses another cookery course for them to attend, which Wales suspects might be a disaster in the making.)  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>5th October, 2007; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
>"So what <em>do<em> you do for a living?" Mark asks, gesturing towards Wales with a slight dip of his pint glass. "Cerys has tried to explain it to me, but I still don't think I quite get it."

It is exactly the sort of question that Wales should have expected upon meeting Cerys' new work colleagues for the first time; a routine sort of question that gets trotted out after 'Hello', and 'How are you?' but before 'So how did you two meet?'. It's a regular beat in the simple rhythm of small talk, but it throws him for a moment nevertheless, as it always does.

Cerys' comes to his rescue with a burst of laughter and: "That's because I don't get it myself. I think it's something to do with the civil service, isn't it, Dylan?"

Wales nods gratefully. "I just give advice on government policies and the like, and it generally gets ignored, anyway," he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nothing interesting, really."

And that's usually enough explanation, because it _doesn't_ sound particularly interesting, and most people have no desire to be trapped in a conversation about the minutiae of behind-the-scenes policy-making and let it drop at that. Mark, however, leans forward, eyes sparking bright with curiosity.

"What sorts of policies?" he asks. "Which department do you work for?"

"Um," Wales stalls, his mind a complete blank, because he has absolutely no contingency plan in place for occasions when vague and boring don't work. They always have before.

"Mark teaches A-level politics," Cerys explains. "He's been dying to meet you because, apparently, he's never heard of a job like yours before."

He wouldn't have, because there are only four positions like it in the entire country, and their existence is solely on a need to know basis. Wales could explain that their closest equivalent is the Queen; like her they have no political power to speak of but their bosses value their years of experience, their intimate knowledge of the workings of the country. They're constitutional nations nowadays, just as she's a constitutional monarch.

But he can't tell Mark that, so instead he plucks out the first reasonable thought that floats through his mind, desperately hoping that it seems plausible. ""It's… It's a very new position," he says. "And very hush hush."

Mark seems satisfied, surprisingly, and he tips Wales a solemn nod. "I understand," he says, seemingly content to let the topic drop afterwards and start quizzing him on how he and Cerys got to know each other, instead.

It takes Wales almost an hour to understand himself, however. It suddenly occurs to him as he's queuing up at the bar to buy his third pint that Mark must think he was trying to cover up the fact he works for MI5, MI6 or some even more secretive governmental agency that's completely unknown to the public at large. It is, seemingly, an easy mistake to make, as Scotland had told him that his mates are all half-convinced that he's some sort of spy, too, but the thought still makes Wales chuckle, considering how tedious the reality of his work actually is.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>10th December, 2007; Cardiff, Wales **

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>"What are you planning on doing for Christmas?"<p>

The question stumps Wales completely, because it's not something he's ever considered before. Christmas is spent at England's house, and the entire holiday runs like slightly rusty clockwork: there will be a present opening Christmas morning, and not one of his parcels will contain anything even remotely surprising; they will listen to the Queen's speech and then wear scratchy paper cracker crowns as they eat their over- or underdone turkey; then they will all get far too drunk and likely have a fight. If England's neighbour, Mr Featherstonehaugh doesn't call the police on them the night before, they will play football on Boxing Day morning and spend the rest of the day snoozing in front of the television. It's simply how things are.

"I usually go to Arthur's," he says, shrugging. "It's a traditional thing."

"How do you feel," Cerys says, dropping down onto Wales' lap and winding her arms around his neck, "about spending it here; just the two of us. We could make our own traditions."

The way her voice drops to something low and suggestive makes Wales think she doesn't mean swapping to Channel 4's alternative Queen's speech, or forgoing Christmas pudding in favour of trifle.

"That sounds fantastic," he tells her, punctuating each word with a kiss.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>31st December, 2007; Edinburgh, Scotland**

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>Wales has avoided introducing Cerys to any of his family largely through accident rather than design. It's a happy accident, however, because they've never been exactly supportive of his relationships when they actually deigned to acknowledge their existence, even without the added complication of co-habitation.<p>

Still, Scotland seemed determined that they spend Hogmanay with him, seeing as though they – in Scotland's words – weaseled their way out of enduring Christmas with England as was their duty. Wales had politely declined, but Scotland had somehow managed to catch Cerys on one of the rare occasions when she was in the house and Wales wasn't, and persuaded her that it would be an enjoyable way of seeing in the New Year instead of the drunken shambles punctuated by violent arguments that it was in actuality.

"I'm sure they can't be as bad as you're making out," Cerys says as they stand on Scotland's front step waiting for him to open the door. "Alasdair seemed very nice on the phone."

"He can be," Wales says, squeezing her hand a little tighter, "but a lot of the time he's just a miserable git. As is Arthur. Micheal, too, come to think of it." He pauses, considering Ireland. "Caitlin's okay, though. Most of the time."

Cerys laughs, a little uncertainly, as though she's can't tell whether he's joking or not. "If they really are that bad, how on earth did you all manage to live together for as long as you did?"

Cerys' 'long' is only the five years Wales had arbitrarily assigned when he'd given her a heavily doctored version of his life history, but sometimes he's at a loss to explain how he might have managed even that short stretch of time, looking back. "Kept to ourselves, mostly. I think we actually see more of each other now than we ever did back then, though I'm still not sure whether that's a good thing or not."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>When he's drunk, Scotland can fall either one of two ways: either almost overpoweringly friendly or aggressively belligerent. Thankfully, he seems to have toppled towards the former tonight, although the bear hug he greeted Cerys with did seem to have shocked her slightly, given that Wales had warned her that his family were likely to be a little standoffish.

Even England had found it within himself to be much more pleasant than usual, acting like the gentleman he so often claimed to be despite the weight of evidence of to the contrary. He'd been delighted when Cerys mentioned that she'd stopped to admire his Bentley outside, and even more so, it seemed, to have a fresh audience for his spiel exhorting the advantages of classic cars.

"She'll be stuck there all night now, you know," Ireland observes quietly, taking a seat on the sofa next to Wales.

"I'll go and rescue her in a minute," Wales whispers back. "I'm just enjoying the spectacle for now."

Ireland raises an eyebrow questioningly, and Wales chuckles. "I was expecting him to kick up a fuss, or ignore her completely, but there he is, having a completely civil conversation. It's a pleasant surprise, even if she is bored to tears."

Ireland smiles faintly, but it's quick to fade. "How's everything going with the two of you?"

"It's fine," Wales tells her yet again, just as he has every time she's phoned over the past few months full of tentative concern and obviously expecting everything to have exploded messily. "And, before you ask, I still haven't told her, either. It never seems like the right time."

"And it probably never will, will it? Look, Wales, I know you're lonely, but it's not fair to keep doing this."

Wales opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again almost immediately when he realises he can't. It used to be it would be years, decades, between his relationships, but since devolution, it's shrunk to a matter of weeks or even days. It's not that he misses Scotland and England, per se, but that he's grown unused to being on his own. Cerys is the first person for a long time, however, that he's cared deeply enough about to fight to hold on to when she talked about leaving; his suggestion that they move in together motivated in part by her announcement that it was unlikely that she would be able to afford to stay in Cardiff once her landlord sold up as he'd been threatening to do.

"I love her, _Iwerddon_."

Ireland's hand settles on his arm briefly, patting once before lifting away again. "I know you do, but still, it isn't fair."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Cerys gives him another perfect opportunity to tell as they take the taxi back to their hotel.

"How come none of you have the same accent?" she asks, muffled through a partially-stifled yawn, as she lays her head on his shoulder. "If you hadn't already told me you grew up together, I would have thought you were raised in different countries."

"Our parents moved around a lot when we were younger." Wales finds himself parroting the old lie, nevertheless, because he's tired, nodding off, and it's already there, curled close at the base of his tongue and ready to roll off with an ease that all the other explanations lack.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>12th February, 2008; Cardiff, Wales **

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>Cerys' snort of amusement, loud in the otherwise silent living room, makes Wales look up from his own book in surprise.<p>

"What is it?" he asks puzzled about what she could find funny in the dry volume of British history she's currently reading for one of her classes.

"This," she says, indicating a cartoon on one of the pages with the base of her wineglass, "is not how I imagined the national personification of Wales."

Wales studies the picture of Dame Wales in her tall stovepipe hat for a moment, his mouth slowly curving into a smile unbidden. She was about as far away from him as John Bull was from England, though the latter had always caused his brother a lot more consternation as he'd caught on in a way that the Dame never had. "What did you imagine, then?" he asks.

Cerys' eyebrows scrunch together in thought. "I don't really know," she says eventually. "Just that my gut instinct is that it'd be a bloke, and he'd look like a rugby player. And he'd probably eat a lot of leeks. And play the harp," she finishes, giggling.

Wales is a superb winger, but he doubts he looks anything like the sort of rugby player Cerys is imagining, lacking in both the requisite height and breadth. He doesn't have any preference for leeks over any other member of the onion family, and he hasn't touched his harp for any reason other than polishing and retuning in years. He feels, strangely, a little disappointed in himself.

They both return to their books for an hour or so, whereupon Cerys slams her own shut with a groan. "I think I'm getting my fill of history for the time being," she says, stretching sinuously. "I'm definitely going to do another art course next, just to mix things up. Pottery, maybe. I've always fancied trying my hand at that."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>24th May, 2008; Cardiff, Wales **

-  
>After months of tripping over half-empty boxes, Cerys finally concedes that it's likely that she's never going to want anything from them in the future if she hasn't found a need to completely unpack them to date, and agrees that they can safely be stored away.<p>

Wales waits until she's out for the day – off cycling with Mark and his girlfriend, Claire – to move them, however, because even though he'd be glad of the help, there are a lot of things already stored in his attic that he'd rather she didn't see. They're not private, exactly, but he keeps his memories there, and they span more years than he can easily explain.

He hasn't been into the attic since Cerys moved in, and once he's carted all her belongings up there and found a place for them, he allows himself the indulgence of going through one of the heavy chests he keeps hidden away beneath piles of old curtains and off-cuts of carpet.

There's nothing of any great value inside, just little mementos of people he'd once known; once loved: locks of hair, pieces of fabric, letters and the like. He unpacks it slowly, fingers growing light and careful when he touches paper and parchment that has grown brittle with age, each object recalling a name, a snatch of time preserved stiff and unmoving as an old photograph but undimmed with age.

At the very bottom of the chest, tucked in one corner, his hands encounter a familiar tin box, and a chill races up the arc of his spine, making him shiver. He knows he should put the box back, bury it deep enough that he's not likely to stumble across it again any time soon. He opens it anyway.

It contains all he has left of Aly: a battered cigarette case; his pocket knife, scratched where a bullet had nicked it; and the small notebook that he'd always carried round with him, cheap pencil so faded now that Wales can barely read the words he'd written anymore. (He'd never written poetry before the war, but, as he'd told Wales, 'Every man and his dog's at it now, _Cymru_. It seems like the right thing to do, somehow.')

Aly had been the only child of two only children, dead at twenty-two, and Wales wouldn't be surprised if this is all there is left of him, full stop. If Wales is the only one save his brothers and France who remembers him now.

His breath stutters in his chest, and his eyes grow hot and itchy. He always thinks he's cried every tear he had it in him to shed over Aly, but is never surprised that there's more, regardless.

He needs a drink.

When Cerys returns home, she finds him lying on the attic floor, everything tidied away again save for Aly's notebook, which he'd slipped in his trouser pocket without thinking.

"What's the matter with you?" she asks, crouching down beside him to smooth his hair away from his swollen eyes.

Wales can't answer with anything other than a wordless groan, because his vocal chords have turned loose and useless with alcohol. If he could, however, he'd tell her all about Aly, and never mind that the man he presents himself as is barely old enough to have had even a great-grandfather who served in the Great War. In that moment, when everything's still raw and hurtful, he wants there to be more people who remember him, if only through disjointed stories and the sad pieces of detritus that are all that remain of his life.

He wants to tell her that he hadn't thought he'd ever find someone else who meant that much to him until he met her, but he can't form the words in a way that makes sense, and they slowly fade away as he drifts off to sleep.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>26th October, 2008; Cardiff, Wales**

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>Cerys' voice rouses Wales from a slightly baffling dream involving penguins whose details evaporate immediately upon waking.<p>

"It's your brother," she says, handing him the phone when he finally manages to co-ordinate his sleep-leaden limbs sufficiently to sit up and prop himself against the headboard. "At least, it sounds like your brother, but he said it was Scotland and he asked for Wales."

Wales mentally curses his brother, who is no doubt too drunk to think straight it being – he glances at the alarm clock – two in the morning on a Saturday. "He's just pissing about," he assures Cerys. "Family joke."

"What is it?" he spits into the phone. "You'd better have a bloody good reason for getting us both up in the middle of the night."

There's no answer for a while, only the soft hiss of what sounds like car tyres gliding over a rain-slick road, and the faint sound of faraway laughter. "I'm locked out," Scotland says eventually, quiet and surprisingly sober-sounding.

"Jesus," Wales groans, "I hope you don't expect me to come running up to Edinburgh with the spare key. Just sleep in your car or something, and call a locksmith in the morning."

"Don't have my car. Took the plane because he gave me absolutely sod all notice and I didn't have time to drive."

"He? Alasdair, are you at Ffr– ," Wales catches himself just in time, "Francis's?"

"Outside France's." Scotland's laughter sounds hollow. "He insisted I had to go to this fucking art gallery thing with him, and then practically the second we got there, he buggered off with some other bloke and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him all night. He's probably off shagging him right now, and I'm stuck outside his bloody apartment without a key or my wallet."

Wales doesn't ask whether he's all right, or why he phoned, he simply asks, "Do you fancy going for a pint tomorrow?" because it's the only question he knows Scotland will answer.

"Sounds great," Scotland says, before falling silent again. His breath catches just once, as though he's about to speak, but then he ends the call without saying another word.

"Is he okay?" Cerys asks as Wales settles himself back into bed again.

"He's just having some problems with his boyfriend." The term seems strange when applied to France, and not only because it's been so many centuries since he could last have been considered a boy. "It happens a lot, though. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I didn't even know he was seeing anyone," Cerys says.

Wales is pretty sure that France isn't aware of it most of the time, either.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>27th October, 2008; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
>It's obvious to Wales when Scotland is unhappy. It's there in the slight drag of his speech, the creases that gather at the corners of his mouth and eyes, and most tellingly in the way he sits; the way he's sitting now, his entire frame curled in on itself as though he's attempting to present as small a target to the world as possible.<p>

Not one word of complaint passes his lips, however. He doesn't talk about France. He doesn't say anything other than offer some idle speculation about the likely winner of next year's Six Nations, some meaningless chit chat about his journey, the quality of the beer they're drinking, absolutely anything that crosses his mind except what's important.

Wales wants to ask him how he feels about what happened, just like he wants to tell England about the really shitty trick they pulled on him when they were kids but never expected him to take to heart. Just like he wants to tell Cerys that he isn't quite as human as she believes him to be. But the words stay trapped inside Wales' head as they always do, endlessly repeating like an echo chamber, because he can never quite find the courage to open his mouth and set them free.

Much later, as they're walking home, Wales loses his footing on a pavement turned slick and treacherous by a thin layer of decaying autumn leaves, and Scotland catches him before he can fall – or perhaps Scotland slips and Wales catches him; he's too drunk to recall the order of events coherently, and the outcome is the same, either way – and doesn't let go of him afterwards. He wraps his arms around Wales so tightly that it lifts him off his feet a little way, and says, "I love you, _bràthair_."

Wales pats his back, but doesn't repeat the sentiment, because it's just something that Scotland says when he's drunk sometimes, and reciprocation is neither expected nor, as Wales well knows, would it be welcome.

It occurs to him, however, in a strange leap of logic he probably wouldn't make if he were sober, that those are likely the words that repeat inside his brother's head, the ones he can't usually give voice to.

They don't fall where they should, in ears that Scotland intends them for, but he's brave enough to say them on occasion, all the same.

With that thought, Wales resolves to tell Cerys as soon as he gets home, and take whatever consequences might come, because he's tired of listening to nothing but echoes.


End file.
